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platosshadowpuppet · 9 months ago

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Take the letters up up the barrow path

This is a story about the moors, about nature, and post-boxes in unusual places. It’s also a story about John.

John is a postman. He is also a walker, a watcher, a listener, a great consumer of tea, a successful if erratic gardener, and he is different. John lives alone, in a small cottage on the edge of the moors. The cottage has only two rooms, an outdoor toilet, and no electricity. Inside there is a kitchen, with a gasfired range, a potbellied woodburning stove, a deep sink, and a well-scrubbed wooden table. Next door there is a bedroom, with a single bed and a set of shelves for books, interesting stones, egg shells, and feathers.

In the morning it takes John precisely 5 paces to get from his bed to the kitchen sink, where he washes his face and fills a copper pan with water, another two to the range, where he sets his water to boil, and one more to light the stove in winter. He decants the water to a sizable white tea-pot - two teaspoons of assam leaves (not blended), three minutes to steep - and uses the rest for two eggs - softboiled for 6 minutes precisely. Two rounds of bread go under the gas grill and receive a strictly portioned scrape of salted butter. Replete with his repast and ablutions complete, the day now forks in front of John in two very different directions.

On a work day John sets out for the village shop. There, his load for the day will be waiting in the care of Mrs Stonehatch. There you are John, letters from your admirers, she’ll say. And more everyday, he’ll say, before setting out on his rounds.

The village first. Sturdy houses, built of gold coloured sandstone and roofed with slate. Huddled together over narrow snickets and flagstoned yards, they keep close to share their warmth and keep off the cold winds coming down off the hills. Here and there chimney stacks still send up streamers of acrid coal smoke, reaching tenuously for the lowering grey clouds above before being whipped off down into the dale below. Then further out.

The Big House, on the edge of the village. And the Vicarage, off by itself so that the villagers aren’t bothered by religion on a weekday, and then the out-lying farms.

Down rutted tracks, between hawthorn hedgerows. Grass springing up optimistically in the centre, between the hard packed tracks of tractors and battered landrovers. Disturbed by his passing, bull-finches, goldcrests, wrens and robbins call warnings and swoop low across his path. Flashes of colour among the deep green of the pasture land and hardy bark of the few windblown trees. John carefully doesn’t keep track of the species he sees and calls he hears, as he’s on the job. Just as he doesn’t notice the enticing deep blue gleam of sloes in a black thorn patch, or the brown banded feather of a sparrowhawk caught on a briar’s snags.

And sometimes, with no rhyme nor reason he can see, there are letters for the box on the Knowe.

On the days he’s not a postman, John is a scimaunderer. A walker, with no destination or set purpose. He packs a bag, pulls on his boots and departs. The day decides his direction for him.

Sometimes it’s up the moors, among heather and gorse and windworn mountain ash. Sometimes the dales, following deer tracks between copses of beach and oak, splashing through slacks and ings. Others the deep forest, where his feet sink into verdant moss and deadfall and cramble snarl the path. And he walks and listens and watches, until he finds his place.

Never the same place twice and he never knows his place before he finds it. There are some constants, the places are always quiet, always sheltered and always near water. That might be the rust red tarns up in the high places, lonely waters with only the sky for company. It might be the becks, burns and spouts of the upper-course, where water calls out ecstatically as it leaps from rock to rock. It might even be far down the dales, where he’s soothed by sill and keld, deep smooth waters with a voice that’s felt more than it’s heard.

Once in his place he sets down his pack, makes tea on his camping stove, and waits to become. It starts first with the sounds.

In his most recent place, a hollow on the moors between two stands of rasping reeds, it started with a curlew. The mournful, rising cry stilled him and pulled his mind away. His focus widened and found, distantly, the harsh, abrupt alarm call of a pheasant and the keening of a buzzard.

Underpinning everything was the susurration of the wind in the heather. Cresting over the edge of his hollow, the wind brought him the rich earthiness of mud, honeyed scents of heather flower and the sharper tang of bilberries in the sun. He sank deeper.

Beneath him roots reached and coiled in the earth. Around him branches swayed and spread in the sun. Voles and mice and beetles and worms, the desolate moorlands teemed with a myriad tiny lives. He drank it all in and became both less and more than a man.

An unknowable length of time passes. Slowly, he comes back to himself. His legs are cramped and stiff, his hands clumst with cold, and the sky has grown dark. With a groan he rises, packs, and sets out for home. By the time he reaches his front door he once again has a name he answers to, a house he owns, and a job to go to in the morning.

Once, way up in the high places, he became something deeper than he’d ever managed before. That time it began with the feeling of cold stone and warm lichen under his hands. Around him time poured like a force and he watched the lichen wage a terrible war. Battle lines were drawn, armies marshalled and yellow and grey came together in a deadly clinch. From the scrum, separate dramas unfolded. Two combatants duelled on an exposed spur, before both were worn away by the wind. Order broke down and swirling melees formed, wearing down the very surface of the stone as they fought and spun. A brave captain fought a rear-guard action in the face of a grey surge, courageous to the last until he was cut off and cut down.

Back and forth, across geological time, campaigns were waged and the man’s mind spread out and down and away. Finally, some banked ember of consciousness caught the air and flared. He came back to pain and cold. Too long sat cross-legged, he could not stand and had to drag himself upright against the rocks. Bright pain stabbed him as blood returned to his legs and he found himself too dry-mouthed to cry out. The sun shifted a full hands span across the sky before he could gather up his things and start the haik home.

For the first time he felt fear in his aloneness and sought out his peers. Slowly, in the village pub, surrounded by a babble of voices as welcome and meaningless as bird song, he came back to himself. Three pints of best cemented John firmly back in his body, but it was still a while before he went wandering again.

On some days he rises and the air seems different and John knows that there will be letters for the box on the Knowe.

No one else ever comments on these letters and they don’t come addressed. The thick, rich paper of the envelopes is as unbroken and featureless as a down-fall of snow on the upper slopes and the colour of sun bleached bone. On these days he’ll pick up his normal load, more letters from your admirers John, and walk his normal round. But when he’s finished, and only the letters for the Knowe remain, he’ll take the barrow path out past the outlying farms and up into the moors.

The Knowe box doesn’t sit on the Knowe itself, but in its lee. A burn comes splashing down from around the shoulder of the Knowe, through stands of mountain ash, silver birch and wych elm, before breaking on an obstinate rock and splitting in two. Set into the rock is the gleaming red of the Knowe box.

On John’s belt is a ring of keys. Two are for his cottage, one is for the village shop - for emergencies - and another is for the post-boxes on his rounds. All of them are brass and dull and plain. The last key is different. It has the slim ellipse shape of a single rowan leaf, an ornate ring handle in the form of twisting branches, and the bewitching gleam of silver. This key opens the Knowe box. The other keys came with John’s house, or from Mrs. Stonehatch in the village shop, but this one has just always been there. If John thinks too hard about when he got it, or who gave it to him, his mind grows foggy and the day dim, like a land-lash is about to break. So he doesn’t think about it, apart from on the days when he knows to take the barrow path.

The path, only packed earth to begin with, peters out when it reaches the burn. Handy stepping stones lead out to the water-festen box and John can normally keep his feet dry. On blashy days in the winter, though, the burn grows restless and breaks its banks and often John is forced to wade.

On this pleasant day in autumn, the burn obeys its bounds and John’s feet are safe. Letters for the Knowe go into a jaw-hole in the rock, left of the box. Whatever the weather, however strong the wind or heavy the pash, the fissure always remains dry and cool to the touch. Letters from the Knowe are collected from the box. John’s key turns smoothly in the lock and the door opens on oiled hinges. Inside the air is dry and scented with old paper and verbena blossom. It never occurs to John to wonder what’s in the letters, or where they come from or who they’re for. Just as he doesn’t expect to understand the song of the birds, the dance of the bees, or the barking of the foxes. It simply isn’t his place. And somewhere he knows that, should he ever wonder too hard, his mind will fog, the light will fade and the question will disappear like summer geese from the moor.

So he takes the letters, relocks the box, and silently leaves them with Mrs. Stonehatch on the morrow.

Except today the box contains only one letter. The same thick, creamy paper, the same sweet smell of dry decay. Except today, in a jagged hand like the stag-head of an old hawthorn, the letter is addressed. His name, written there. Stark against the whiteness. This time, when he wonders what it means, and why today, and what might be contained within, the fog doesn’t fall and the day keeps its colour.

He turns, letter heavy in his hand, to look back downstream. Beyond the stands of trees the sun is setting and a touch of coal smoke from the village taints the cooling air. Behind him, the Knowes’ presence has taken on a weight, stretching the fabric of the world like a pondskater on the water’s surface. John feels he has reached a fork in the road, forced, like the burn, to choose one path or the other.

Unless, like the burn, he chooses to break his bounds. With a smile John stretches his arm out over the water and lets the letter go. For a moment, it seems like it will refuse. It clings to the calluses on his palm, fighting gravity as John tilts his hand further and further. There is a pregnant moment, when the wind stills and the birds quieten and even the rushing of the burn seems to lessen. And then it falls.

A hand of spray reaches gladly up to take it and John watches as his name whirls and fades and disappears from view.

It occurs to him that this spot, in the lee of the Knowe and sheltered by the rock, would make an excellent place. He crouches and places his hand in the hill cold water and lets his mind run with the stream.

An unknowable length of time passes. Consciousness flares and flickers back to life. Smoothly he stands and stretches, the arch of his back mirroring the hills behind him. It is a pleasant day in autumn, the sun beginning to sink beyond the far side of the valley and a touch of coal smoke taints the air. He thinks he should probably go home, though he doesn’t feel tired, or cold or hungry.

The walk back down the barrow path passes quickly, and he revels in the bright colours of the birds that cross his path. He plucks blackberries from the brambles as he walks and finds a sparrowhawk feather trapped among the thorns.

The village’s snickets and yards are empty, and the light’s off in the shop. The coal smoke is thicker here and it catches in his throat. Further on, and to a cottage at the edge of the moors. His cottage.

Except that electric light burns in the windows and new rooms have sprung up around it like mushrooms after the rain.

A weight hangs heavy on him, that might have been loss, or might just have been the silver key that still sits on his belt. He leaves both on the doorstep and turns to face the moors.

A few steps takes him across the road and into the heather. A few more and he’s beyond the paths he used to take down into the dales. The sun passes beyond the western hills and gloaming takes the valley floor. He takes a deep breath of the night air, clear of coal smoke or the smell of verbena, and finally becomes.

#fantasy #low fantasy #magical realism #fiction #writing #microfiction #fae #micro fiction #stories #short story #creative writing #writeblr

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themissinglynx · 5 years ago

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Table Rock Lake Clans - List of Prefixes by Color

An exhaustive list of all possible prefixes in the Clans of Table Rock Lake

I may make a category list soon

Black

Ani - derived from the grove-billed ani Ant - used for small cats Bat Bear - used for big cats - derived from the American black bear Beetle Black Bramble - refers to the ripened fruit - derived from the blackberry bramble Cherry - refers to the fruit - derived from the black cherry Cicada - used for tabbies Coal Coot - derived from the American coot Cormorant - derived from the double-crested cormorant Cricket - used for solids or tabbies Crow Dark Duck Eel - used for long-bodied cats Evening Flint Goose - used for black and white cats Grackle - derived from the common grackle Hornet Loon - used for black and white tabbies - derived from the common loon Mink - derived from the American mink Night Raven Shade Shadow Skunk - used for black tabbies or black and white cats - derived from the striped skunk (tabby) and the spotted skunk (bicolor) Smoke - used for tabbies Soot Spider Starling Storm Swift - used for black and white cats Turtle Vulture - derived from the turkey vulture Wasp Weevil Willow - refers to the bark - used for black longhairs - derived from the black willow

Brown

Bat Bear - used for large brown cats - derived from the grizzly bear Beaver Beetle Bison - used for big cats Bittern - used for light brown tabbies with white - derived from the American bittern Brown Chicken - used for light brown spotted tabbies with white - derived from the prairie chicken Chipmunk - used for small tabbies Cricket - used for tabbies Cougar - used for large light brown cats Deer - used for light brown cats - derived from the white-tailed deer Duck Dust Eagle - used for brown and white cats - derived from the bald eagle Elk - used for large cats Frog - used for spotted tabbies Grebe - derived from the horned grebe Grouse - used for spotted brown cats - derived from the ruffed grouse Harrier - used for brown and white cats - derived from the Northern harrier Hawk - used for brown and white cats - derived from the red-tailed hawk Honey - used for golden-brown cats Lizard - used for tabbies Mantis Mink - derived from the American mink Moth - used for tabbies Mouse - derived from the house mouse Mud Nightjar - used for spotted brown tabbies - derived from the common nighthawk Oak - refers to the bark - used for tabbies - derived from the black oak Oat - refers to the flower - derived from the wild oat Pecan - used for tabbies - derived from the pecan tree Quail - used for spotted and white tabbies - derived from the bobwhite quail Rabbit - derived from the cottontail rabbit Rail - used for dark brown spotted tabbies - derived from the king rail Rat - derived from the brown rat Rock Rush - refers to the flowers - derived from the common rush Snail Soil Sparrow - used for brown and white tabbies - derived from the house sparrow Spider Stone Sycamore - used for big tabbies - derived from the American sycamore Tawny - used for light brown cats Teal - derived from the cinnamon teal Thrush - used for spotted light brown and white tabbies - derived from the wood thrush Turkey - used for big cats Turtle Walnut - refers to the nuts - derived from the black walnut Weasel - used for brown and white cats - derived from the long-tailed weasel Weevil Wigeon - derived from the American wigeon Wren - used for brown and white tabbies

Reddish-Brown

Alder - refers to the bark - used for tabbies - derived from the hazel alder Cardinal - refers to the female of the species Cedar - refers to the bark - used for tabbies - derived from the red cedar Clay Crane - derived from the sandhill crane Ibis - derived from the white-faced ibis Owl - used for spotted reddish-brown tabby and white cats - derived from the screech owl Pheasant - used for spotted tabbies - derived from the common pheasant

Gray-Brown

Armadillo - used for tabbies Bass Birch - refers to the bark - derived from the river birch Boulder - used for large cats Coyote Dove Elm - refers to the bark - used for tabbies - derived from the American elm Hare - derived from the American desert hare Hickory - refers to the bark - used for tabbies - derived from the bitternut hickory Kinglet Lark - used for grayish-brown and white cats - derived from the horned lark Lynx - used for spotted tabbies - derived from the bobcat Magnolia - refers to the bark - used for tabbies - derived from the cucumber magnolia Mole - derived from the Eastern mole Pike - used for spotted tabbies Pine - refers to the bark - derived from the shortleaf pine Sand Shell - used for tabbies Vole - derived from the prairie vole Warbler

Gray

Badger - used for tabbies - derived from the American badger Bass Bergamot - refers to the flowers - derived from the plant Blizzard - used for spotted light gray tabbies Boulder - used for big cats Burdock - derived from the greater burdock Carp Chickadee - used for small gray and white cats - derived from the Carolina chickadee Cinder Coyote Dark - used for dark gray cats Dawn - used for light gray cats Dove Dusk - used for dark gray cats Evening Falcon - used for gray and white cats - derived from the peregrine falcon Fog Goose - used for gray and white cats Granite - used for spotted tabbies Gray Gull - used for gray and white cats Hail - used for light gray cats Halcyon - used for dark gray or blue cats with a little white - derived from the belted kingfisher Haze Henbit - derived from the common henbit Heron - derived from the great blue heron Junco - derived from the dark-eyed junco Larkspur - derived from the delphinium Lichen - used for light gray tabbies Lizard - used for tabbies Lobelia - derived from the great blue lobelia Loon - used for gray and white tabbies - derived from the common loon Lynx - used for spotted tabbies - derived from the bobcat Mallow - derived from the common mallow Minnow - used for tabbies Mint - refers to the flowers - derived from the hoary mountain mint Mist Mole - derived from the eastern mole Moth - used for tabbies Murk - used for dark gray cats Nettle - derived from the American stinging nettle Nuthatch - used for gray and white cat Opossum - derived from the North American possum Owl - used for large gray and white tabbies - derived from the barred owl Pale - used for light gray cats Pebble - used for small cats Phacelia - derived from the purple phacelia Phlox - derived from the woodland phlox Pigeon Pike - used for spotted tabbies Raccoon - used for gray tabbies - derived from the common raccoon Rain Rock Sage - derived from the wood sage Shade - used for dark gray cats Shale Shell - used for tabbies Shrew - derived from the northern short-tailed shrew Shrike - used for gray and white cats - derived from the northern shrike Silver Slate Sleet - spotted gray tabby Smoke - used for tabbies Soot - used for dark gray cats Squirrel - used for gray and white cats - derived from the eastern gray squirrel Steam - used for pale gray tabbies Stone Storm - used for dark gray cats Sycamore - used for big light gray tabbies - derived from the American sycamore Thalia - used for gray and white cats - derived from the powdery thalia Thistle - derived from the common thistle Titmouse - derived from the tufted titmouse Trout - used for spotted tabbies Vervain - derived from the blue vervain Vetch - derived from the common vetch Violet - derived from the birdsfoot violet Wolf - derived from the gray wolf

Blue

Aster - derived from the flower Blue Bunting - derived from the indigo bunting Chicory - derived from the common chicory Gallinule - derived from the common gallinule Glory - derived from the morning glory Halcyon - used for dark gray or blue cats with a little white - derived from the belted kingfisher Indigo - derived from the blue false indigo Jay - used for blue and white tabbies - derived from the blue jay Swallow - used for blue and white cats - derived from the tree swallow

Ginger/Red

Apple - refers to the fruit - derived from the wild apple Ash - refers to the leaves - derived from white ash Bergamot - refers to the flowers - derived from the plant Blaze Bramble - refers to the unripe fruit - derived from the blackberry bramble Cardinal - refers to the male of the species Dawn Dusk Ember - used for small cats Evening - used for deep red cats Fire Fox - derived from the red fox Ginger Ginseng - derived from the American ginseng Hawthorn - refers to the fruit - derived from the red hawthorn Hazel - refers to flowers - derived from the Ozark witch hazel Holly - refers to the fruit - derived from the meadow holly Ivy - used for tabbies - derived from the poison ivy Maple - refers to the leaves - derived from the red maple Marigold - derived from the marigold Morning Lily - used for spotted tabbies - derived from the leopard lily Oak - refers to the leaves - derived from the white oak Persimmon - derived from the American persimmon Plum - refers to the fruit - derived from the American plum Pumpkin - refers to the fruit Red Spark Sumac - refers to the leaves or berries - derived from the fragrant sumac (leaf) and the smooth sumac (berry) Tanger - refers to the male of the species - derived from the summer tanger Wasp - used for tabbies

Gold/Cream

Amber Aphid - used for small cats Apple - refers to the fruit - derived from the wild apple Bee - used for tabbies Blaze Bolt Daffodil - derived from the narcissus Daisy - derived from the yellow ox-eyed daisy/black-eyed Susan Dandelion - refers to the flower - derived from the weed Dawn Finch - derived from the goldfinch Golden Honey Hornet - used for tabbies Lightning Locust - refers to the leaves - derived from the honey locust Lotus - derived from the American lotus Marigold - derived from the marigold Morning Mullein - refers to the flower - derived from the great mullein Mustard - derived from the black mustard Persimmon - derived from the American persimmon Poppy - derived from the celandine poppy Primrose - derived from the common evening primrose Sand Spark Tanger - refers to the female of the species - derived from the summer tanger Tansy - derived from the common tansy ragwort Tawny Velvet - derived from the velvet plant Yellow

White

Aphid - used for small cats Apple - refers to the flowers - derived from the wild apple Avens - derived from the white avens Bramble - refers to the flower - derived from the blackberry bramble Blizzard Bolt Bright Cherry - refers to the flowers - derived from the black cherry Cloud Clover - refers to the flowers - derived from the white clover Cohosh - derived from the black cohosh Cotton - refers to the seeds - derived from the upland cotton Dandelion - refers to the seeds - derived from the weed Egret - derived from the snowy egret Flax - derived from the bastard toadflax Frost Gaura - derived from the gaura flowers Hail Haw - refers to the flowers - derived from the blackhaw Hawthorn - refers to the flowers - derived from the red hawthorn Hemlock - refers to the flowers - derived from the poison hemlock Ice Light Lightning Lotus - derived from American lotus Milkweed - refers to the seeds - derived from common milkweed Mint - refers to the flowers - derived from the hoary mountain mint Mistletoe - refers to the berry - derived from the American mistletoe Onion - refers to the bulb and flowers - derived from the wild onion Orchid - derived from the Adam and Eve orchid Pale Parsley - refers to the flowers - derived from garden parsley Plum - refers to the flowers - derived from the American plum Rose - derived from the wild rose Sage - derived from the wood sage Sleet Snow Spark Swan White Willow - refers to the catkins - used for white longhairs - derived from the black willow Yarrow - derived from the common yarrow

Patched/Bicolor

Duck - used for black and brown cats Eagle - used for brown and white cats - derived from the bald eagle Falcon - used for gray and white cats - derived from the peregrine falcon Grebe - used for brown and white cats - derived from Clark’s grebe Harrier - used for brown and white cats - derived from the Northern harrier Hawk - used for brown and white cats - derived from the red-tailed hawk Iris - derived from the iris flower Jaeger - used for black and white cats - derived from various jaegers Jay - used for gray and white tabbies - derived from the blue jay Nuthatch - used for gray and white cat Merganser - used for black and white cats - derived from the common merganser Patch - general bi/tricolor Plover - used for black, gray, or brown and white cats - derived from the various species of plover Scaup - used for black and white cats - derived from the greater and lesser scaup Shrike - used for gray and white cats - derived from the northern shrike Skunk - used for black and white cats - derived from the spotted skunk Sparrow - used for brown and white tabbies - derived from the house sparrow Swallow - used for blue and white cats - derived from the tree swallow Thalia - used for gray bicolors - derived from the powdery thalia Thrush - used for spotted brown and white tabbies - derived from the wood thrush Weasel - used for brown and white cats - derived from the long-tailed weasel

Patterned

Speckle - used for spotted tabbies Spotted - used for spotted tabbies There’s others but writing them down would make this section bloated...

Tortoiseshell/Calico

Brindle - used for any tortie Clay - used for brown torties Copper - used for dark torties Dapple - used for any tortie Dawn - used for dilute torties Dusk - used for dark torties Eagle - used for darker torties - derived from the golden eagle Ember - used for small torties Evening - used for dark torties Fox - used for diluted torties - derived from the gray fox Fritillary - used for brown torties - derived from a tribe of butterfly Grebe - used for dark torties - derived from the eared gribe Kestrel - used for spotted red torties or blue torties - derived from the American kestrel Morning - used for dark or dilute torties Mottle - used for torties with little to no white Oriole - used for darker torties - derived from the orchard oriole Owl - used for brown torties - derived from the great horned owl Pansy - used for any tortie - derived from the garden pansy Patch - used for any calico Pheasant - used for brown torties Robin - used for brown torties - derived from the American robin Skipper - used for brown torties - derived from the skipper butterfly Squirrel - used for diluted torties - derived from the fox squirrel Tawny - used for diluted brown torties Toad - used for diluted torties Towhee - used for darker torties with white - derived from the eastern towhee

#table rock clans #warrior cats #warrior names

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believe-that-you-can-my-friend · 8 years ago

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Where The Wild Roses Grow

Summary: When Jughead becomes an active member of the Southside Serpents, him and Betty are starting to grow further and further apart, as the boiling volcano of Riverdale's Civil War is threatening to erupt in full force. Can a heart to heart with Alice Cooper and an old Serpent jacket give Betty and Jughead the hope they both need?

Read on AO3

(This is huge so grab snacks and drinks. The Bughead scene ruined me. I apologize for all of this. Warning: full angst and sin ahead! I’m not describing it as much anymore cause after the Jughead I saw in the finale that’s a given but still, after I post this, I’ll crawl under my covers in blushing embarassment.😂 Here you go, lovelies! I hope you enjoy this! ❤️)

"On the second day he came with a single red rose

He said, "Give me your loss and your sorrow?"

I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed

"If I show you the roses will you follow?"

The snow is slowly melting under the heaps of rain and so is her will to contribute to life these days. The icy scenery that adorns Riverdale gives out under the rays of sun that stubbornly peek through the pine trees and white oaks, ridding their leaves from the coldness of nature, only to become shiny droplets of clear water that hold the whole kaleidoscope of colors, just like tears and their colossal scale of emotions. He is the ice, she is the stubborn sun; that’s what he tells her through the sad darkness of each night that they lay together but further and further apart. He says it as a compliment, in the most sullen John Wheelwright fashion, but she accepts it gladly as her fingers form infinity signs over the crackling ice of his golden heart. Her hair is golden too under the dim moonlight, it’s a match made in heaven, and she vows that tomorrow she will try to burn hotter than the December sun over the patches of snow that are menacingly trying to turn him into a lifeless statue. And she does. But not today.

There are colors of blue and gold in the sky as the sun dips into the hills far, far away. There is The Register, forgotten and coffee-stained, over the floral plastic tablecloth, opened in page six and the magniloquent article about Riverdale’s corruption and subjection of justice signed by Elizabeth Cooper, Alice Smith-Cooper. There is her history book, her copy of To Kill A Mockingbird stashed on top of it littered with a million colorful sticky tabs and her laptop opened, cursor blinking warningly on the half-finished document about the reflection of Atticus Finch throughout the novel. But there are also Social Service papers and Southside High paperwork and his beanie left on top of his messenger bag, both thrown hastily on a creaky dining chair, and Betty can’t focus on anything important, like school, or the paper, or generally her life so she just cooks, unburies any pot and pan she can find, and cooks.

The limited Tupperware is filled with homemade lasagna, meatloaf with roasted potatoes – his favorite –, fried chicken, some vegetable soup that she knows he is not going to even touch but she just hopes for his sake. There is also apple pie in the fridge but that doesn’t count; she had brought that from home and she is sure it is going to be inhaled by him in a mere matter of seconds when he will notice it lurking behind his usual TV-dinners. Chocolate brownies are being baked in the slow oven and a pot filled with water is boiling, just like her temper that forms a lump in her throat, making her want to shed fat tears of worry and frustration over the pile of breakfast sandwiches she is storing into silicone zip up bags. She is glaring at the clock on the wall, once per nanosecond, the ticking making her more anxious and pushing her more to the verge of screaming, to wail like another Banshee at the premonition of something terrible. She doesn’t know where he is, she doesn’t know what he is doing but she does know that he is with them, as if the perpetual dreadful feeling in her chest needed any more confirmation from the open living room closet where his limited choices of jackets are hanging messily on mismatched hangers except for one.

Heavy, jogging footsteps up the tiny outdoor staircase shake the whole trailer under their squeaky force and Betty literally jumps, peanut butter filled knife dropping against the olive counter with sound, heart flattering with relief that for one more night he is safe and with her. Keys jiggle and the wooden door gives out under his drumming fingers, Betty’s rushing palms urgently coming to wipe the wetness that formed against her cheeks without her even noticing. She hears him halt for a moment and then turn to the kitchen, combat boots thudding against the hardware floor in coordination with her heart each time her antennas are sensing him close to her, either across the hall or glued to her chest, it didn’t matter.

“Hey!” Betty hears her voice greeting cheerfully, surprisingly steady enough to pass as her typical easy-going tone, even though the burden drilled to her chest leaves no room for cheerful. She gives him a quick smile over her shoulder, catching him sporting a sweet, dumbfounded smile while resting a forearm again the kitchen threshold, black leather contradicting on white wood, before her eyes are once again occupied with the task at hand.

“Something smells good in here.” Jughead comments with delight, eyes casting from the steam emitting pot to the alit kitchen and then her killer legs wrapped in skintight dark denim. He licks his lips and for the first time in his life he is not salivating at the sight of food.

“You think?” she continues the lighthearted chat, because that’s what he needs, that’s what they both need, a tiny piece of normality and everyday living mist their tragedy stained small town world. There’s shuffling behind her and the swoosh of leather being thrown carelessly away and she sighs with a small feeling of contentment at the action. He is well aware how much she hates that jacket and the promise behind it; so he makes sure to always shred it off his shoulders himself before stepping into her world of comfort and vanilla. It’s a silent deal between them, a religious habit of his, slipping back into his Jughead Jones shoes the nights shared with her before waking in the morning in an empty bed again as one of those Serpents.

“It’s the brownies.” Betty smiles around the word, knowing that his weakness for chocolate is only a tad smaller than his weak spot for her and her cheeks flush momentarily at his naughty suggestion of tasting both his vices some night, dark chocolate dipping in every hallow and hidden curve of her body as she writhes under his lustful tongue. And just like that, she wants him again, sore thighs be damned, still deliciously aching by his bite marks and their spread opened position all night yesterday.

She can feel him stride towards her and the drumming of her heart increases until there are large hands on her low abdomen, playing with the hem of her white fuzzy sweater, grazing skin, making her sigh and melt back against him.

“Yeah, that too.” Jughead hums, the tip of his nose running from the hollow of her collarbone up her neck and his lips settle against her pulse point, sucking wetly and tasting the salt on her skin, the sweetness of her perfume, the blood that pumps quicker because of him. Home. Her head falls back on his shoulder with a sigh, she offers him more skin to get lost into, bodies rolling sensually as her back collides with his hard chest and her firm behind finds him already half-hard and ready to ravish her. His bony fingers undo the button of her jeans and naughtily sneak inside, the soaking lace drawing a moan from both of them, the vibrations of her neck mingling with his trembling lips, teeth biting hard, and the effect is evident on her panties again, his long fingers stroking her like a fine harp or the world’s filthiest violin.

As fast as it appears the sensation is gone and Betty momentarily frowns before she is dropped on top of the kitchen counter, just like that first night the world came upside down for them. The very first night that, after a bitter confrontation and hateful claws shedding that bloodcurdling jacket from his shoulders, he had made her a woman on that creaky couch in the next room, with words like “mine” and “I need you, don’t leave me” against her open in wonder lips. It’s a desperate battle for dominance now once again, lips bruising lips, tongues twirling wetly in a hurricane of need, fingers creeping on cheekbones, digging on skin. He gasps against her opened lips and her tongue comes out for a lewd invasion, making him groan and fist her ponytail, pulling hair and changing the angle of their kiss to violate her mouth more, until there are scratches of blood against the soft pink of her bubblegum lipstick. Jughead demands her sweater off as he wrinkles it inside his tight fists and she complies, raising her arms and arching her chest towards him when the warm garment is just a useless white fluff on the tiled floor. He smirks in appreciation at the lacey pastel blue bra that greets him, full breasts rising and fall under his intense stare, and he follows her blush up until their eyes connect for a moment, pupils dilated and eyelashes blinking in a disorientated stare. And in that moment she can see all his true colors, the blues and the violets and the dark greys and the pastels behind his eyes, she can see him, her one and only. He feels it, the prying into his soul, and he softens his movements, hand cupping her scarlet cheek with excessive care and baby blues almost watery, pouring every ounce of love he has for her, the beautiful Helen of Riverdale’s civil war.

With a clasp of her ankles behind his knees and a slide of her hips to end up flat against his, the moment of tenderness is gone and he groans as he dives for her bee-stung lips again, inhaling inside the hotness of her sinfully sweet mouth, his thump caressing the corner of it, indicating that he wants it wider, and Betty leaves a low moan of delight at the gesture, complying of course and hungrily reciprocating his kiss, heads tilting from side to side in frenzy, wet sounds fueling the pushing and pulling of their hips. Her hands run down his muscular chest and bury under his black t-shirt, fingers slaying on his flexing abs and delivering a sensual caress up his pecs, bringing the cotton material with them and making him hiss under her touch before pulling back to user the shirt off his body, recklessly tossing it down to join her sweater with a wolfish smirk that makes her stomach flip in excitement before it gets lost against the crook of her neck. He is working to create a mark, just like the plethora of others that she finds in almost every inch of her skin when she showers, and she feels him biting hard on her collarbone, momentarily pulling her flesh harshly while groaning. She moans loudly and her legs slide up his sides in reflex as he reaches behind him and takes hold of her ankle, pushing it up until the heel of her fawn ankle boot is hooked over the waistband of his black ripped jeans.

“What took you so long today?” Betty sighs against his jawline, lips dropping messy pecks under it, on his tender neck, behind his ear. She doesn’t know where she finds the sanity to utter words, especially as her soft palms are roaming over his strong back, feeling his shoulder blades flexing manly with his hard pants, but she needs to make sure that he is still the guy that used to climb windows just to see her.

“I had some things to take care of.” Jughead murmurs uninterested in small talk and only paying attention to the love bite forming against her collarbone, pulling back to smirk momentarily at the sight of it before running his tongue across her heaving sternum, erotic wetness coaxing the base on the other side of her neck.

“Social worker?” her eyebrows knit in concern because their meetings are frequent now that his official move to the foster family is only some days away and she hugs his shoulders tighter without even noticing it, either for comfort or in a desperate attempt to never let him go or both, definitely both.

He shakes his head negatively against her neck, messy raven locks tickling her cheek and she can’t fight the urge to run her fingers through them, scratching his scalp and tugging lightly, opening her mouth to speak again but the only sound that comes out is a strained low sigh as his large palms run up the sides of her jean clad legs, her hipbones, his ribs, until they grasp her breasts firmly, squeezing them heavily over their pastel blue prison.

“Them?” Her stone-cold voice and accusatory tone can be hardly missed and Jughead gets tense for a moment but his lips never stop devouring her porcelain skin, his fingers never stop digging roughly at the swell of her breasts as he gropes them urgently, pads slipping into the lace and nails grazing against their peaks that are already hard and desperate for his attention. Betty is moaning, low and deep, besides the temper that starts once again to rise inside her chest or maybe because of it, she doesn’t know. She just feels ready to explode and that’s surely because of him, because of his heavenly touch and his current un-heavenly transactions with criminals. It’s a strange feeling, for somebody to cause such diverse emotions to her, that someone never being the one to agitate the turbulent waters of her heart only to calm them, and it is confusing and frustrating and so damn mind-blowing intense.

Jughead pulls back with a big exhale, raven locks pocking his pitch black from passion eyes, hips jerking against her heat once, almost violently. “I’m not doing any drugs, if that’s what you’re asking.” He reassures her with his typical smart-ass tone and goes to resume the actions of his hands that still lay casually on her breasts, ready to be done with this troublesome conversation, but she stops him, his head bouncing back as she tugs at his hair, a little more harshly and painfully than intended. Her green eyes are cold and hide a hint of disappointment that Jughead loathes with every fiber of his body so he adopts his usual defensive stare as he waits for her to mention once again the elephant in the room.

“Are you selling them then?” The bomb is dropped; Jughead knows that a new round of fighting is going to begin in a matter of seconds and he wishes he could stop it, he wishes there was a thing in the history of the world that he could say and make them shiny and new again, but there isn’t and he is tired of fighting and tired of trying to prove constantly himself to her and he can feel his tongue slip and not for it to bring her pleasure this time but pain.

“It never crossed my mind that you of all people would think that low of me.” His voice is venomous, just like the snakes he is thrown into, and his eyes narrow in disbelief, actually hurt that she, the person that knows his heart like the back of her moon-scared palm, believed even for a second that he would be responsible of condoning any kind of addiction, let alone that of teenage kids like them.

“Can you blame me?” she grows defensive too, ominous green shade on her doe eyes. “Ever since—” she begins but he is faster than her, always faster, and a hurricane of words emit from the depths of his slowly closing in a suffocating choke throat.

“Ever since what?” Jughead snaps, challenging her to go on if she dared. “I found a family? I found people that want me in their life and they are not ready to flee with the first chance they get?” he shoots question after question unceremoniously, angry that she doesn’t understand his need to finally be accepted by a community that doesn’t treat him a parasite. She scoffs at his words, he glares at her. “What, Betty, you wanted truth, I’m stating the truth!”

The volume of his voice takes her aback and she replies with the same hostile tone and glare. “The truth is that I don’t like the person you’re becoming.” Second bomb.

“The person I’m becoming?” Jughead exhales the words and his eyes are smaller than buttons as disbelief and anger creeps around them. “What about the person you’re becoming?!” He is infuriated now, pacing up and down in front of her, hand gestures intense and erratic. “You defended my dad, Betty, in front of the whole fucking town. You defended them in that stupid article” he points menacingly at the newspaper on the stinky kitchen table “that now seems to be nothing but lies and a popularity façade. What are you trying to prove this time, huh? Tell me.” He holds his ground and demands, chest heaving once again but not from the heat of her body but the heat of anger at her behavior, at his own behavior.

“Are you being serious right now, Jughead?” Betty’s hands come to grip the edge of the counter she is still sitting on, knuckles turning white, and her fingertips itch to just slip and pierce her skin instead of the cheap linoleum and she is sure she will later tonight when she crying in bed but not now, not in front of his towering posture and his furious eyes. She is not going to appear weak now. “Are you really doubting my intentions after everything that I went through this whole month defending you and that clan of criminals?” she doesn’t believe him, she doesn’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth and her heart sinks to her stomach at the revelation that maybe this is actually his true self and all those time she was just holding on her own personal version of purity and illusions.

“Could have fooled me.” He states in a low casual voice but his eyes are lifeless and his tone of apathy bites more deadly than the cobra on his jacket.

She shakes her head and huffs and, unlike his eyes, hers are filled with emotion, with fat, angry, painful tears so she casts her gaze down on the denim of her knees, not wanting to give him the pleasure of breaking right before his eyes, even though she has done it a million times before. “Brilliant.” She chokes. “Just brilliant.” She decides to face him again, catching a frown of concern or maybe regret painting the middle of his eyebrows. “Just because you chose to crawl back into your shell and stop communicating with me, don’t try to turn this whole thing against me.” She spits with much deserved venom and she hopes he sees the salty water in her eyes.

“Well, you might be confused cause you are the one turning distant and so damn cold here.” He groans at the end of his accusation, watching as something goes off at the back of her mind while she straightens her back to face him fearless and shameless, like she always faces all her demons.

“Yeah, of course, my only use anymore is to be hot and ready to be fucked, right Juggie?”

The water in the still boiling pot overflows. It pours viciously on the hot stove with a chilling sound. It gets burnt.

They both jump and he rushes to turn off the appliance before he throws the pot inside the sink with a loud thud, fingers colliding with the torrid iron and getting burnt just like his heart some seconds ago under the deadly sparkles of her words. He hisses a curse and groans in frustration, his palms slamming against the counter, making her jump again, and his shoulders hunch over the sink in despair, Jughead closing his eyes to control his temper. But her look of total emptiness and the rancorous way she said his nickname that always held a fondness and sweetness he had never experienced before from any woman in his life are replaying in his mind again and again like a movie in which everyone dies and there’s no happy ending.

Behind him Betty doesn’t dare to utter any further word. She struck a cord, she knows by the way his bare shoulder blades stay tense and his breaths come out sharp and fuming, and she thought she would feel good inside her skin if she paid him back with a painful dagger of words through his heart but she doesn’t; in fact, she fills more awful than before.

“Hey, Jug, you’re up for some night paroling?” the voice of a boy cuts through the tension, barging in the trailer like he owns the place while continuing his carefree monologue, Jughead straightening up his posture immediately to turn to look at her, topless and seated on the counter, and Betty scoffs incredulously at his new buddies and their lack of manners. “Hunter fixed that motorbike you wanted – oh” he stops mid-stride and scans her up and down before he lets a wolf-whistle in appreciation along with a smirk. “Nice game, man.” He compliments the both of them and Betty narrows her eyes at him in annoyance in coordination with Jughead’s loud clearing of his throat in warming, as she hops to the ground and curls her arms over her chest protectively. She has seen him before, he is the guy responsible for the cute dirty ball of fluff that lurks on Jughead’s doorstep every day, but she doesn’t pay him any more attention as she turns to the boy that makes her see red once more.

“Motorbike?” she raises her eyebrows in a you-gotta-be-kidding-me grimace. “Seriously now?”

Jughead hesitates, voice becoming tentative and low. “It was a gift…” he offers vaguely.

“Like the jacket, I know.” Betty sighs in disappointment. “You can’t really say no to such full of gratitude gestures right?” she spits to his face and chuckles with no humor at all when she sees him drop his head to the ground, not even trying to justify himself.

“Whatever, I’m out of here.” She reaches for her sweater on the floor, her school stuff long forgotten on the table. She just needs to get out, to leave that suffocating trailer, to breathe.

“Betts…” Jughead tries in the usual soft voice Betty still hears in her dreams, assuring her that everything is going to be okay, and he goes to grab her wrist but she squirms out of his touch.

“Don’t.” she snaps coldly at the nickname and his pleading eyes. “And you did well picking friends that they don’t even have the decency to knock” she sends a glare to the Serpent boy that looks from her to Jughead sheepishly “because you’re not having any of my booty call company ever again. We’re done.”

The thin trailer walls shake under the force of the closing door behind her. And then it’s just darkness.

Not all Serpents are bad.

It’s the third evening in a row after their fight that Betty doesn’t go to Pop’s but instead curls Caramel on her chest and lays in her floral bed, drowning in heartbreak. Her green eyes are watery but there are no more tears in her to shed, the waterfalls of that night that she was inconsolable drained, but her head is filled with a million thoughts that don’t seem to take a rest even at the wee hours of morning. Betty needs an intervention.

She finds it from Alice Cooper, as she sits next to her on the bed, sweet smile intact and ready to offer some feministic speech about the importance of independence and the absurd habit of women crying over ungrateful men. Or that’s what Betty expects. Because the only thing that echoes in her pastel room is the only phrase that the younger Cooper never expected to roll off the tip of her mother’s snobbish tongue.

Not all Serpents are bad.

“I don’t care about them, I only care about Jughead.” Betty stubbornly responds at the cliché her mom is trying to convince her of. “He is changing because of them.”

“Change is not always bad.” Alice contradicts in simplicity, her daughter sending her a fed up glare over her shoulder.

“You’re not helping, mom.” She replies sarcastically, a tad annoyed at her now too and her lack of any of her usual authoritative statements. Betty never thought that a day would come when she would crave her mother’s ultimatums.

“I’m just saying that change is bound to happen.” The older woman explains lovingly, a hand rubbing her daughter’s arm. “You’re teenagers, Elizabeth; you’re shaping your personalities, shredding some aspects of them, gaining some others.”

Betty turns to lay on her back with a huff, picking aimlessly at the fur of her beloved stuffed cat. “Yes, but we are not supposed to lose ourselves.”

“Is he really losing himself?” Alice challenges with a raised eyebrow, sure of the answer, because she knows Jughead Jones, she used to be him many, many years ago. Betty opens her mouth to reply, then closes it in a loss. Deep down, she knows too that this isn’t the case.

“He doesn’t belong there, mom.” Green eyes reach their replica pair as Betty shakes her head vigorously, stubborn and stupidly spiteful and just a teen. “He belongs here in Riverdale High and at Pop’s and with—” her lips are running and her tone is the usual Betty Cooper one when she is extremely passionate about something but Alice cuts her off with a knowing look.

“You?” she completes her daughter’s sentence with a years-of-experience smile, the girl on the bed across her sighing a “yeah” in exasperation. “And why not the opposite? Why don’t you belong there with him?” the woman fires back with one of her overconfident expressions and Betty is at a loss again, eyebrows knitting in confusion as to what on earth her mother was suddenly talking about.

Alice laughs lightly at her clueless expression, a hand patting her hip in affection as she stands up. “Come on; I have something to show you.”

Their attic is the same as Betty remembers it, dusty and filled with a lifetime of memories. Everything is organized; newspaper documents, old house décor, Polly’s section, Betty’s section, their parents’ past. It holds her mom’s wedding dress, her dad’s tuxedo, a carton box titled College, another one titled High school. Betty knows this corner like the back of her palm, she and Polly always used to snoop around there, looking at pictures, taking turns wearing Alice’s long wedding veil or her vintage silver pumps. She is utterly confused as to why they are here and unless her mom unburies a yearbook with some inspirational quote from FP that indicates that Jughead has still hope of being saved, Betty finds it completely bizarre.

Her head actually bounces backwards in surprise and her eyes widen when her mom pulls some loose planks off the hardware floor and brings to surface a black box she’s never seen before with the initials A.S. in the middle, a snake forming a circle around them. Alice drops it against an old coffee table and smiles warmly at a bewildered Betty as it opens it to reveal a whole other world, a world that all those years she kept secret in her heart.

There’s a pair of baby shoes, some toys, a rug doll, some elementary school drawings. And then there are fishnets and black leather pants and concert tickets and an empty pack of red Marlboro autographed by Slash and three stacks of photographs and other memorabilia that she doesn’t understand but what she immediately sees and understands is the black leather jacket at the bottom, folded with excessive care so the logo on its back to be untouched by time; Southside Serpents.

“Mom…?” Betty’s head snaps to look at her, shock painted all over her stunning features.

“Yes, I was born in the Southside.” Alice confirms without a hint of shame in her voice. “Yes I was a Serpent; and a damn feisty one.”

Story time begins and Betty learns about her mom’s parents for the first time – not the vague “they died pretty young” she knew all those years – two hippies with a lifestyle based on freedom and free love and utopian socialism. With a free spirited nomad as a father and a rebellious biker gang member as a mother, Alice grew up to be fearless and strong, with a sharp tongue and a red-hot attitude. Her father left for a roadtrip to India when she was ten and never came back and her mother was just a background silhouette on a speeding bike, never becoming a proper mother, never knowing how to become one. The Serpents took her in, raised her, loved her, they became her family. The jacket she wore back then was never a burden or a suffocating knot around her neck; it was a badge of honor, something that she was proud of wearing, something that gave her confidence and unique Alice Smith back then attitude. And because she was confident and because she knew her potential and her ability to succeed she fought for a better quality life. And she got it.

“I’m not the person I was back then, Elizabeth.” She concludes with a sigh, taking an old picture of herself from a stack and examining it with a nostalgic smile. “But I’m still me, here” she presents her the photo “and here.” She pokes her chest and Betty’s eyes go from her preppy looking mother back to the girl on the photo that laughs carelessly with a beer bottle in hand on top of a Harley, waist-long hair messy and leather jacket draped over her shoulders. They look deferent but they are the same; it’s in the eyes.

“Mom” Betty huffs still looking at the picture “I…I don’t know what to say.” A breathy chuckle leaves her lips at the hurricane of new information, her mind still not grasping the idea of uptight Alice Cooper being part of a notorious centuries old biker gang.

“Southside, Northside, we are all Riverdale.” Alice states matter-of-factly and that holds Betty’s attention. “And Riverdale should be unified; you said so in your article. So don’t waste any more time discriminating and setting labels. You were always better than that.” She reminds her with a sweet smile, unfolding the jacket and handling it over to her, like a former queen passing the precious crown to her heir.

“Life’s too short to hide behind meaningless words or pride or ego, honey.” Alice hugs her shoulders from behind, Betty running her thumps over the printed back of the jacket in thought. “If you love this boy and you wanna be with him, then go get him. Deal with the mess together, help each other find your ways.” She encourages her firmly and Betty feels her heart flutter at her words, the reality of how stupidly immature they are both acting settling in her chest. “He is a good boy, baby. And he makes you happy. Go, be braver than me.” Alice nudges her cheek in affection and then she is gone as Betty stands there alone, face to face with the piece of clothing he hates the most.

But not tonight. Tonight will be her own badge of honor.

Jughead pushes the door open, the rusty hinges letting an icky sound under the weight of his palm, as the newly recruited Serpent walks into his dad’s trailer, head hung low and a heavy burden of problems and responsibilities on his shoulders.

He expects to find the place dark, empty and cold. He isn’t naïve enough to believe that after their latest fight Betty would come crawling back to him. His million texts and phone calls were unanswered, his two drives to Riverdale High fruitless, her refusing to even acknowledge him in the parking lot as she walked away hand in hand with Veronica, the brunette girl giving him a sympathetic smile over her shoulder that he only reciprocated with a nod. She is right; the fights are a few too many now, his last words were stupid and harsh for no reason. Things are bad, maybe he is bad too, bad for her. Snakes curling around porcelain necks can only lead to tragedy. So maybe she is better off.

He expects to find the place dark, empty and cold. But it is only dark, neither empty nor cold. It’s filled with that unique feminine scent that can make his toes curl and his breath quicken in a nanosecond and it’s warm, hot, inflamed by the erotic image she is offering, spread out and ready for him and only him.

“Betty…” it isn’t a question, just a confirmation, a sullen relief and deep longing, her name spilling off his lips in a low sigh of ultimate wanton. Blue eyes, shining under the dim fluorescent light that invades the room through the small window, roguish and intrigued, roam over her slender figure on the ugly, floral couch, like another French girl posing lasciviously for the hungry eyes of her biggest admirer.

She isn’t completely naked but that is the madness of it all. Three tiny items on her sinfully promiscuous body are fogging any of his logical thoughts, bringing to the surface only his darkest ones, the ones that all those years he tried to suppress, labeling them fantasies or abnormalities of his brain. A pair of heels, black and deadly stiletto, with tiny straps holding her ankles captive just like his fingers did the first time he got lost between the abyss of her thighs, and all the other lewd filled times that followed, keeping her open and immobile with legs thrown over his board shoulders, feeling even the tiny bones there, at her delicate ankles, spasming under the treatment of his hungry tongue against the place that he only had the privilege to French kiss for hours until, spent and with no other oxygen left in her heaving lungs, she is always begging him to stop before her mind would paralyze under his dirty pleasure spell. A pair of red lace panties, barely there, barely visible doing little to none to hide her heated center, the center of gravity for his male primal needs, sitting low against her prominent hipbones that still hold the shape of his kisses in color purple, some small, some big, some paired with nail scratches from yesterday and the day before and all those days he pushed her roughly against his pistoling member or anchored himself while he was teasing them both, tip getting soaking wet from her need to have him always inside her. And what he sends him spiraling, in the verge of losing his mind and any ability to proceed further and brush his fingertips against the sharp edges of the goddess of his dreams; the black leather jacket – the same snake-decorated leather jacket he is now sporting as a symbol of unity and acceptance – worn over the ultimate weapons of her sexuality, no preppy sweater, no good-girl bra, just the two mounds of swollen flesh that bring pleasure to him in a way he never imagined, bare and stretching the hard leather.

His keys slip from his finger and collide with the ground with a jiggle. His lips part in a silent gasp and his stomach coils with raw excitement, a deliciously strong gut-wrecking feeling. Betty Cooper is a vision to behold wrapped in the black leather of the most infamous jacket in the history of Riverdale.

“Are you just gonna sit there and stare?” she challenges him and the wild sea of his blue eyes gets disrupted by her voice, bewildered orbs running from the valley between her breasts where they are practically gawking, to land on her lips, full, luscious, dark red like the lace against the apex of her thighs. He can’t decide which pair of lips is sweeter so he always ravishes both with equal tremendous passion, like a man feasting on his last meal or an exile coming home, kissing the land that holds his identity in utter gratitude.

She swings lightly against her elbows, the ends of her golden locks caressing the biblical symbol of sin behind her, her leg that is bended by the knee on the couch nudging closer to her long and outstretched other. She is clenching them together to ease some of the fire in the place that longs even a brush of his hot, manly breath but not making the first move because she loves it when he is in charge of it all, when he is in control of her body and mind, even if, in reality, she is the one holding him hostage in her erotic webs. She knows what she is doing to him and he knows what he is doing to her and together they push each other limits, tangled up together with a promise of forever.

“I thought you weren’t talking to me.” Jughead tries to get his mind to work, a truly impossible task with the way she is offered in front of him. He bites the inside of his cheek at that, wanting to hold back a choke at the repetition of her hurtful words that plays in his mind, at his desire to have her despite them. There’s a porcelain plate still laying on the kitchen floor behind him, useless and in pieces, symbolizing the constant breaking of both their hearts when they battled with harsh insults and not their inflamed bodies two days ago and a week ago and that very night that he had accepted the jacket of the damned and forgotten as his bulletproof armor against their mad, hostile world.

Betty rises to her feet, cat walking slowly to the man that holds her entire being on his now greased and calloused palms. “And I thought that you would always fight for us.” Click, click, click, heels fall in coordination with his breathing, sharp and quick, as the distance between them shortens and her perfume of arousal and sin invades his senses, calling for him, luring him in. Come, ignite my body, he can hear the echoes breach from her chest, the curves of her breasts against the metallic zipper of the jacket two Sirens enchanting him to a sensuous death and he can’t do anything but close his eyes and take a sharp intake of breath, knowing that he will always be a lost cause at the sight of his own celestial Venus.

“I would.” He confirms curtly, eyes open to show the determination behind their now dark color, a full man now, not a beanie boy holding on his fair share of innocence. She misses the beanie boy but she loves the towering man before her more, because now she can read him, because now, even with blindfolded eyes, she can pinpoint every scar on his hard body, every nervous twitch of muscle, every feverish beat of his iron soul. “I still do. This will never change.” He promises her his life, because what is his living without her in it, but she doesn’t want his sacrifice, she just wants him and the comfort of his arms and his words of delirious wanton against her sweaty skin.

“Then why are you just staring at me still?” with her chin up, Betty faces him fearless and shameless, green orbs piercing through his soul and draining it from the hardly any blood that is still there and not in the delicious bulge between them.

They don’t speak anymore, he doesn’t need any more encouragement. His lips are on her scarlet ones, smudging their color, opening them up, poking them with his wet and demanding tongue. They don’t say “I’m sorry” to each other, they don’t need to anymore, because they have nothing to be sorry for just their fate and their involuntary involvement in tragedies, like two Shakespearean heroes in a world full of Macbeths. They’d rather show it as their bodies curve against each other and their breaths mingle and there’s a music of desperate gasps and heavy panting as he cradles both sides of her face and angles her head in frenzy, messing her hair and pushing her lips more and more against his thirsty ones, wanting to consume her whole, to inhale her and hold her captive forever in his bloodstream.

His hands fist the jacket and his mind is filled with million questions about how and why but she bops her lips sensually up and down his tongue and he loses it, almost loses his footing, because that action is pleasantly recognized by his cock that twitches painfully against the metallic prison of his zipper and he forgets each and every word he ever learned. He goes to push the jacket off her shoulders but she grabs his wrists to stop him, unwrapping her swollen lips from his. Jughead blinks rapidly against the darkness of the room, mind not really registering surroundings or the reason why the warmth of her mouth disappeared.

“This stays on.” The blonde angel lowers his arms to his sides, rolling her chest over his sensually as the tip of her tongue comes out to lick the corner of his mouth. “I want the full Serpent experience tonight.” She whispers filthily against his open lips and sends him a provocative look under innocently flattering eyelashes and Jughead can’t hold back anymore, he grunts almost painfully and regains control of that sinful mouth, twirling his skillful tongue in a way that has her putty in his arms.

Betty’s back collides with the wall; there is a hiss of pain that turns into a weak gasp as Jughead’s teeth bite hard on her lower lip and then disappear, Betty leaning forward in a desperate attempt to follow the anchor of her desire. He pushes her back against the wall, a large hand splaying on the top of her sternum, fingers parallel with her collarbones, and she pants heavily, hands raised up in surrender against the wall, mouth open, eyelashes flickering over lust filled eyes. She surrenders under the intensity of his stare, the pad of his middle finger drawing a straight line down the middle of her breasts, making her arch against the utter simplicity of pleasure that it offers.

“Where did you get the jacket?” his voice comes raspy and authoritative because he needs to know now, intrigued by the change of heart in that particular item of clothing. His eyes cast at the hint of pink that now the misplaced garment offers, Adam’s apple bopping as his fingers trail skin until they are caressing it and then they move under the leather to twitch the already hard nipple, gaining a low moan from the girl captured between the cold wall and his heated body.

“Long story. Not now.” She is not gonna discuss Alice Cooper and her rebellious past while there are bony fingers abusing the sensitive peak of her breast so she vaguely answers around pants and hissing breaths. And then she feels the wet heat of his lips enveloping the tensing nerve-ending and she immediately loses every train of thought as her head falls back with a bang. The sensation lasts only for a minute, then his attention is on the neglected nipple and next she can’t feel him anywhere again, just hears the sexy pop of his lips freeing her reddened skin before she groans and snaps her eyes open. Upon catching his glistering with passion eyes watching her again, or rather her soaked dark nipples stretching against the zipper of the jacket, she smirks, words coming out of her lips to tease him and fuel his fiery, dominating side more that make her legs jelly and her panties soaking wet since day one.

“What?” Betty has his attention, head snapping up, pitch dark eyes peaking behind raven messy waves. “You lost your ways, Serpent King?” it’s simultaneously a title of honor and shame as it rolls off her tongue and he can feel his blood boiling and pumping in his veins, the fingers of the hand that is still firmly on her sternum, turning to dig lightly against her flesh.

Jughead leans to her ear. “You shouldn’t have said that.” It’s a low whisper, a sexual threat, and she shivers against his chest, at his words and his teeth that graze her earlobe as a follow up. “If that’s the case, then a king should always bow down to his queen.” And with that he is lowering himself to the ground, sexy smirk intact as one knee meets the floor and the other stays bended against her calf.

His large palms caress from her breasts to her ribs, the front of her thighs, the back of her calves as his lips sloppily trail open mouthed kisses against her stomach and to her navel, licking a path across the elastic of her underwear before taking it in his teeth and pulling momentarily, then letting it snap back against her skin, making her arch against his mouth and bring her legs together to ease some of the fire he is causing her. Those blue eyes look up to catch her forest green ones and the smirk never leaves his lips as he closes the red lace between his teeth again but this time he rolls them down, spreading her wetness on her thighs on the way, before they are just an accessory around her right ankle. The action turns her on even more as she searches for his hair and tugs forward, bringing his cocky face against the middle of her thighs.

Jughead licks a trail from the inside of her knee up her thigh and then he’s opening her up, nails scratching down the back of her thigh before his hand curls at the crook of her knee and he hoists it up his shoulder, stiletto heel and red panties gridding against the tongue of the snake behind his back while her hips are mimicking their action against his own marvelous tongue. He is fully clothed and she is fully naked, apart from the jacket that now rubs deliciously against her perky nipples, Betty moaning at the combined sensation and scraping his scalp, fingers fisting his hair for dear life. There are heavy licks and audible sucks and she can feel herself falling, falling into the depths of numbness and wholeness, mewling through her smudged lipstick and withering against the cheap wall, the wall that receives a hard slap from her palm as she feels his lips directly on her most sensitive nerves, sucking hard and moaning from the taste of her nectar.

It doesn’t take long, Betty can already feel her legs trembling, and when she feels his fingers joining the feast against her heat she strongly believes that her heart is going to jump right out of her exposed chest. He pushes two fingers inside of her, to the hilt and with no warming, the fallen angel on top of him delivering a deep moan that makes his painful erection twitch against his unbelievably tight jeans and he groans as more wetness runs down his fingers, making her silk and ready for him and the rest of the plans he has for them for tonight. Her hips are staring to spasm, her feminine scent is filling his nostrils making him dizzy and demanding, reaching for the leg on his shoulder and curling a hand behind her knee, rising it a tad and opening her up more as the pad of his fingers dwell on the spot inside her that makes her produce the filthiest of sounds, something that happens again like clockwork and has him smirking and groaning against her tensing muscles.

“Oh God, Jug, please…” his name falls from her lips in a common Betty Cooper erotic sigh and her eyes snap open in wonder as he moans in response and quickens the action of his fingers, his tongue on her clit drawing heart-stopping figure eights that has her grinding her hips against his face in frenzy. She is practically riding his mouth and he loves it, the red lace against her ankle swaying vigorously like a red flag in the face of a bull threatening to escape. What does escape is a long, deep moan from her chest when she looks down to the amazing man between her legs and she catches him with eyes closed, enjoying it as much as her. She violently grabs a fistful of his hair, the action drawing a hiss from him against her dripping wetness and his eyes snap up to take her in, in her most vulnerable and utterly breathtaking form. Her body stiffens and her legs start to tremble, not bearing more of the intensity of his treatment and she is falling, falling into the depths of the universe, with his long fingers pistoling in and out of her and his teeth grazing the bundle of nerves at the center of her existence.

She isn’t able to even form a moan or one of the high-pitched sighs he loves, her lips just open in heavenly agony and utter pleasure and she is spasming relentlessly while he works her more and more, wanting to taste every drop of her release and prolong the flattering of her muscles for as long as possible, as hard as possible. Betty has to stop him at some point, hypersensitive and afraid that her body is going to melt into a useless puddle on the floor if he keeps going, using her hold on his hair to drag him up her body and kiss him senseless, tongue twirling around his soaked lips and throat letting a lustful moan at the taste of herself on him. Her hands run from his hair to his neck and then the lapels of the identical with hers leather jacket but it’s his time to grab her wrists and break their heated make out.

“Turn around.” Jughead’s voice is barely a whisper against her opened in heavy panting lips but its tone is still a command and Betty bites her lip at the feeling of more wetness that rushes to her center just by the implication of his words and his dominating stare. She complies, turning to face the wall, excitement and electrifying desire invading her senses as he helps her hands slide up over and on either side of her head for leverage and taps the inside of her thigh to widen the gap between her legs.

He takes off his clothes as he watches her; the black leather contradicting her golden locks, her porcelain white skin, her sun kissed personality. He lets his own jacket drop, then grabs the back of his dark grey sweater to pull it off, shaking his head from side to side in a manly fashion to get the stray locks of his black mane away from his eyes. He bends for his combat boots and his eyes land on the valley of her legs, thighs glistering under the pure moonlight from his tongue work and her arousal and his member twitches again, demanding attention at this point. He unbuckles his belt and he swears there is a tiny wiggle in anticipation from the glorious hips in front of him and, with a bite on his lower lip, a manly moan and without any more self-control, he yanks his black jeans and boxers down his legs, kicking them off completely. His little minx of a girlfriend offers him a sly smirk over her shoulder and a lick over her upper lip and he loses it right there, snatching a condom from his jacket and quickly rolling it over his impossibly hard member with a hiss of anticipation, before dropping against her back and lining himself to her entrance.

She mewls and pushes back against him and he doesn’t want any more encouragement as he grabs her hip and enters her in one swift movement, his other hand slamming the wall next to hers as he closes his eyes and drops her forehead against the back of her neck, him letting a deep manly moan and her gasping loudly at how firm and hot he feels inside her. He begins a slow, lascivious rhythm, hips rolling in delicious waves and it’s such a slow burn that Betty feels like drowning, like she doesn’t have control of her body anymore, like her fate is handled wholeheartedly over to his amazing hands. There are low moans and sharp intakes of breath and Jughead is murmuring apologies and filthy compliments against the back of her neck, bruising the skin there and making her drop her forehead against the wall, offering him more skin, offering him everything he wanted from her.

Soon, Betty gets frustrated and starts to push back with vigor, wanting for him to speed his pace and have her hard and fast, the way both of them love, but Jughead refuses with a halt of his movements and a painful nail scratch on the side of her thigh that makes her shiver and curse under her breath as he smirks cockily against the snake of her jacket. She knows how to play dirty too though and when he starts moving again, painfully slow and teasingly, she clenches her muscles around his throbbing member and he actually has to anchor himself with both hands from her hips as his hips jerk forward, too wound up for her to play such games on him. There’s a low grunt out his lips and Betty smirks in victory but it doesn’t last long because she suddenly feels empty, the wonderful fullness between her thighs gone and she growls in frustration as he turns her around and picks her up by the back of her thighs, her gasp getting tangled up with his groan. They kiss with fever licks, demanding teeth and roaming hands on her behind, his tip soaking wet from her body’s reaction towards him all the nights spent in this trailer, as he walks them to the bedroom, kicking the door with his foot and dropping her on the mattress that creaks under their weight. There is a devilish smirk on his red lips and Betty clenches her legs together at the sensation a simple facial expression of his is causing to her overly sensitive body.

“Ass up, hands on the headboard, baby.” Soft tone but commanding dark blue eyes and Betty is sure she can come right here and there by that look alone and the view of his hard, naked body. He drops a playful but loud slap on the side of her hip when he sees her not moving but instead eyeing his hard on with lustful eyes and she offers him a foxy smile before going on with his request, resting on her knees, her ass in the air and slender fingers wrapping around the mahogany bars of the vintage double bed. A trembling sigh leaves her lips as the cold air of the room contradicts with the hotness of her skin and the tingling sensation against her center, the position she is in adding a thrilling naughtiness in her already way too turned on mood and she wiggles her hips against him once again, asking for something, anything to feed the hunger between her legs.

“You don’t even know how exquisitely delicious you look right now.” Jughead whispers in awe, eyes capturing the image and storing it at the back of his mind, knowing that this is surely going to be his wet dream from now on, every night she isn’t lying next to him. And what a spectacular wet dream that is.

His fingernails are scratching lightly up and down the back of her thighs as he starts teasing her with his tip, making her shiver and writhe under him, his hands going to settle around her waist, bending it more and pushing the leather material up to trace the adorably sexy dimples against her skin there. His knees push her knees further apart and without warming he is inside her to the hilt one again, Betty snapping her head back with a surprised moan and him dropping over her back with a baritone gasp.

Slow and languid isn’t an option anymore; they’ve missed each other those days that they were stubbornly pushing each other away and now they are way too wound up and ready to chase their pleasurable union down that road of intense sexual magnetism that their bodies seemed to have since the time they shared their first kiss. He is thrusting behind her in a steady rhythm, skin colliding with skin and the sound mingling with the operatic moans that fall out of her voluminous lips, fueling the tightness low on Jughead’s stomach and causing his movements to become curt, sharp, deeper and deeper. He feels on fire, literally catching in flames and burning down in ashes as she pushes back against him with vigor, meeting his thrusts and clenching him more and more in the pouring lava of her feminine abyss.

“Pull my hair.” Betty sighs breathlessly, too lost in the sensation of his hard cock hitting places inside her that makes her legs spasm against his and he groans deep in his chest as he does what he is told, taking hold of her blonde curls and twirling them in a makeshift ponytail, tugging her head lightly towards him. Her eyes roll back to the inside of her skull in pleasure and her sigh is a full on sultry one as he drops his lips on the side on her neck and starts sucking on her thudding pulse point, hard.

Jughead’s hips push and pull quicker, her legs almost give out but he curls a strong arm around her belly and holds her against him, completely at his mercy. The world spins way too crazily, the headboard is banging loudly against the wall, her heels are digging painfully on his calves, his lips are everywhere on her neck, sucking and marking, and his hot raspy breaths echo between her sultry moans and high pitched sighs. They are on the verge, shimmery sweat coaxing both their tense bodies and the leather sticks awkwardly on her skin but she loves every second of it, just as much as he does. Jughead abandons her neck and her hair fall like a waterfall of gold at the side of her face as he straightens his back and takes hold of her hips fiercely, nails scratching against her hipbones in sweet pain, pulling her more ferociously against his thick length, Betty biting the pillow under her and letting a muffled scream as her knuckles turn white around the wooden bars of the bed.

He commands himself not to close his eyes because his need to watch her is desperate right now, the snake in her jacket staring him right in the eyes before his lust-filled orbs drop further down to the skin on her waist that reddens under the iron hold of his fingertips, her frim ass smacking against his hipbones, him getting lost inside her. She feels heavenly, soaking wet, burning hot and tight like a vice and he can’t help but groan loudly as her muscles start to flutter around him and her legs start to shake uncontrollably, the telltale signs of intense orgasm he has imprinted in his mind.

His fingers sneak down where they are connected and once the pad of her middle finger comes in contact with her sensitive clit, her whole body jolts from electricity and an almost painful moan rips her chest as she falls forward, hands sliding down the bars of the bed with a squeaky sound due to her sweaty palms, Jughead’s free hand gripping her breast under the jacket, pinching the hard nipple and rolling it in circles that coordinate with the circles between her thighs.

“Jug, I’m going to co– ah!” her orgasm strikes before she gets the chance to say it, lips falling open in a perfect O and body going rigid as pleasure runs through her bloodstream like a drug. Her head falls back on the shoulder of the arm that is flexing to draw out every ounce of white pleasure from her body and she squeezes him, soaked walls demanding his release and of course he complies, joining her in the crescendo of her erotic loud sighs mingled with his name, thrusts messy and uncalculated as he comes undone inside her body. His hand yanks the hem of the jacket down her shoulder violently, as severe spasms run down his spine, and Jughead drops against her with no control of his body to bite hard the soft skin around a deep primal growl of Betty’s name.

They are all trembling limps and a mess of sweat as they try to calm their raging breaths, him pulling out of her with a tender kiss against the redness on her shoulder, her offering him a lightheaded smirk at the action and a trembling sigh of contentment. He drops back carelessly with a cooing exhale vertical on the messy sheets, too exhausted to actually plop himself up properly on the bed and he takes hold of her ankle to slide her gently down and to his side, Betty throwing an arm carelessly over his stomach and hitching a leg between his, jacket still on but wrinkled and on one side low on her shoulder. Some minutes of blissful silence pass before he speaks up, voice hoarse and deep, still affected by his previous intense high.

“Betty, I love you.” Jughead states, because he has a feeling he is not saying it much these days, and Betty nudges her nose at the crook of his neck, tightening the hold of her arm around his torso, dropping a soft kiss against his collarbone. “What you said the other night, about this, between us, being just sex now… You know that’s not true, right?” he tilts his head to look down at her with concerned knitted eyebrows, her final words in their latest fight still stinking like a flaming iron on his chest.

She rolls practically on top of him, elbows resting on his chest, damp curls tickling his left pec. “I was being petty because I was angry. There’s pressure from everything and everyone around us, it was bound for us to crack under it. Of course I know it and of course I didn’t mean it.” She assures him and he sighs, relieved. “I love you, Juggie, and it’s real. I can feel it in my fingers when I touch your cheeks, I can feel it in my heart when I see your face in the crowd, I can feel it in your eyes when you look at me like that, as if love is a word you only learnt from my lips.” Betty whispers lovingly, fingers tracing the handsome features on his face, illuminated by the moonlight.

“It is.” His own whisper is barely audible and his eyes seem to water, Betty leaning up to press a soft kiss of love and affection against his temple, over untamed waves and droplets of sweat.

“I don’t want to keep pushing you away anymore. I love you too much to do that.” She says in a soft, vulnerable voice. “It’s just, we are changing—”

“Betty, we’re not—” he tries to cut her off with a fierce shake of his head but she has more to say.

“Yes, we are, Juggie. And it’s fine.” She points the word with a slow nod to show him that she is perfectly okay with this reality. “It’s part of this crazy scary thing that’s called growing up. And it’s not fair for me to constantly keep beating you up for the choices you decide to make about your life.” She says apologetically, hating herself for making him choose between her and his need for acceptance, even though she knows how bad he is seeking it.

“Maybe I don’t have a clue about what the hell I’m doing.” Jughead sighs in despair, his eyes focused on his fingers playing with her hair. “Maybe all of this is a giant, disastrous mistake.” He is puzzled, trapped in his own head and the world around him and he fears for the worst, messing everything up, betraying his dad, ruining them. His mind is literally in the verge of exploding and he needs her to be his anchor to sanity.

“Then so be it.” Betty doesn’t miss a heartbeat. “We’re going to face the consequences together. I’m with you, Jug.” He hears those three little words and his heart flutters almost as if she said “I love you” or “come in me”. “You could destroy the world and I’d still be by your side.” Her eyes are sincere and loving, with a hint of determination in their green shade and Jughead is falling in love again, more than he already is, harder, faster with no chance to second guess or to secure his heart.

“You, Betty Cooper, are growing into an amazing woman.” He whispers in awe, hand coming up to caress her cheek, like he is touching a goddess or the world’s finest art work. In his mind, she is both.

“That needs you, Jughead Jones, the most brilliant and terribly handsome man on the planet by her side.” She leans forward to connect their foreheads and a thump caresses the corner of his lips, him tilting his head to peck lightly the pad of her finger.

“Your excessive compliments are slipping far away from the truth but I’m way too exhausted to argue right now.” He breathes in his usual snarky tone and Betty giggles lightly, messing his hair against his forehead. “Seriously Betts, this outfit,” he trails his eyes down her silk body, licking his lips at the sexy heels that are still on her feet and the way her breasts are pushed up against his side “damn, I swear my eyes nearly fell off their sockets when I first saw you on the couch, baby.” He lets a tiny groan at the image and bites his lip, as a hand sneaks at the back of her head and pushes her forward for a lazy, wet kiss.

“Yeah, you kinda demonstrated how much you liked it.” Betty sighs when they pull apart, eyes closed dreamingly and lower lip between her teeth, as her hips roll involuntarily against the side of his thigh, him groaning again as he feels her still wet for him. “And it was mind-blowing.” She whispers against his lips in sultry delight, his chest falling with a deep exhale as he captures her lips again in languid passion.

“When am I learning the story behind this jacket?” he murmurs curiously when they pull back for air, still a tad exhausted to engage in a full make out.

Betty settles back against his shoulder with a small smile. “It’s a gift from an old Serpent. Very long story; you’ll be surprised.” Her lips move in coordination with the pad of her index finger against his pec. “Let’s save that for later, I just wanna be with you close right now.” She purrs and clings to him in a cute girly fashion, his own arm closing tighter over the leather on her back, lips leaving a loving kiss on top of her hair.

The stay in silence for a while, him blinking up at the ceiling in peace now that his angel is again in his arms and her enjoying the heat and scent of his body with closed eyes, the gentle rain creating a soothing background to their deep breathing and delicious aching of bones.

“Hey, Betts?” Jughead whispers abruptly, as low as he can, not sure if she is asleep and not wanting to wake her if that’s the case.

“Hm?” she hums, nudging her cheek against his chest.

“You wanna know what my favorite thing here is?” The question is out of the blue but she doesn’t stop him because of course she wants to know, she always wants to know any big or tiny thing about him. “Every Friday night there’s this movie gathering where they set up this big screen and play retro movies. There are families there, kids our age, couples…” a tiny smile forms on his lips aimed at the abstract shapes of moon dust on the ceiling. “It’s a very nice sight to see amongst all the black leather and gas smoke.”

“Like the Drive-in?” Betty smiles too, even though she can’t see him do so. She can feel it.

“More like an outdoors cinema.” Jughead explains, fingers tracing the skin of her shoulder aimlessly. “They lay down blankets or tablecloths or worn out car sheets and just enjoy.”

She sits up against his chest again, eyebrows rising in pleasant surprise. “And Serpents actually turn up to such thing?”

“Of course.” He scoffs like it’s the obvious because it is. “There are people, Betts, just like us. A jacket doesn’t make a difference.” He states matter-of-factly and her mother’s previous words echo in her head.

Southside, Northside, we are all Riverdale. And Riverdale should be unified; you said so in your article.

“What are they playing this Friday?” she catches herself asking without even noticing.

“Tarantino, Pulp Fiction.” His baby blues shine with a hint of boyish excitement, that light that goes off when he is passionate about something and Betty utterly adores, and she doesn’t think twice before she goes to reply with a dashing grin.

“Then we should go.”

“What?” He almost jumps off the bed, head jerking up and his eyes now big round balls of shock.

“Yeah, we should.” She repeats, seeing him frown, while examining her face in the darkness in confusion. “We haven’t had a date since ages, Juggie. Plus, I really do wanna know your world. I wanna be here for you, for real this time.” Her tone is serious now, she is with him through every step of the way. “Maybe I can meet the guys you hang out with at school there too? If you want to, of course.” Betty’s sweet smile never fazes and Jughead is at a loss once again, mind blank and shut down by the sudden change of events.

“I do but… you, I mean, you don’t have to—” He stutters pathetically because he loves her for what she is trying to do and he will feel the happiest person on the planet if she wants to hold his hand while he dives in this new world that terrifies him but excites him at the same time. But he’s always putting her first and pressuring her or putting her in danger are some things he never did and will never do, so he is ready to refuse, to keep her out of trouble, to keep her pure and untouched, away from this muddy swamp he made his home.

She is stubborn like usual, fingers running to his lips to shush him. “I want to.” She declares, not leaving room for further discussion. “I told you before, Jug, if we’re gonna be together I wanna know everything about you.” She reminds him with a lovesick smile, taking his hand, like she had done back then at Polly’s baby shower, the Serpents being again the cause of conflict between them, and this time she brings her lips to his knuckles, kissing softly. He melts at the tender gesture and his eyes shine with love and devotion at the miracle of a girl that gets to call his.

“Fine, we’ll go.” Jughead can’t really refuse her anything; she has already conquered the most important parts of his identity, his soul and his muse. She squeals in delight and she kisses him with smiley lips and he can’t help but chuckle at her genuine enthusiasm, before raising his eyebrows in warning. “But now don’t go full on worried mode about first impressions and whatnot. After you slammed that door in my face the other night, Ryker practically worships you. He thinks you are so cool.” He drops his voice to mimic the other boy’s tone and then scoffs in exasperation, rolling his eyes too as Betty laughs loudly and smooches his cheek lovingly. He can’t stay broody after that though and he sighs in content as he gets lost in her eyes, his lovely boyish smile curling his lips and reaching his eyes, Betty’s heart thudding deliciously against her ribcage, as she feels an equal smile appear on her lips, her face the definition of a woman madly in love.

Yes, not all Serpents are bad. And her Serpent is definitely the purest soul of them all.

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